


ceasefire

by LadyMerlin



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Confessions, Cooking, Developing Friendships, Domestic Fluff, Edward Elric is an Unreliable Narrator, Edward Elric needs Help, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mentions of Possible Character Death, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Roy Mustang is Trying, Roy Mustang is a Good Friend, Roy Mustang is a Good Man, Self-Esteem Issues, Slice of Life, The way to Edward Elric's Heart is through his Stomach, Thoughts of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17728217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: “If there was no other way,” Mustang starts, and stops, and starts again. “If there was no way to retrieve your brother’s body, what would you give up in equivalent exchange?” It’s another one of those questions that isn’t really a question.“You already know the answer to that, Mustang.”





	ceasefire

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing bad happens in this fic, but there are discussions of bad things happening, and worst-case scenarios. Ed loves his brother very much, but he's awfully young, and at the very end of his rope, running out of options. I imagine this is an eventuality he resigned himself to, pretty much the moment he realised the Philosopher's Stones weren't a viable solution. Roy is doing his best, but he's not perfect either.

The first ever cessation of hostilities between them doesn’t take place in an office. In fact, it doesn’t take place in Central Command at all.

The first ever _civil_ conversation between Ed and Mustang takes place in the latter’s townhouse at three in the morning, on a day when the rain just won’t stop. Well, technically it’s the second day of incessant rain, seeing as it’s past midnight, but Ed’s never been a fan of semantics unless it’s related to alchemy.

It should’ve been weird. It should have been off-putting in the worst of ways, because he’s so accustomed to arguing with Mustang that he’s not entirely sure what to do with this peaceful silence. He’s half-tempted to break it with a rude comment, just to see if he can, but there’s a person in his head that feels a lot Al, not even saying anything; just conveying disappointment at his shitty choices.

In his defence, most of his shitty choices aren’t real choices in the first place. Between a shitty outcome and a shitti _er_  outcome, Ed knows which one he’ll choose, even if the consequences are hard to swallow. It’s not like he particularly enjoys inflicting property damage on a massive scale, but the lives of people have always taken priority over the material comfort of rich people.

The whole week has been difficult and the worst had been when he’d ended up pulling down an entire castle around his own ears, to save the lives of three children being used in some disgusting ritual. The rich bastard who’d lived in the castle had been furious about it and Ed had been braced for Mustang to tear him a new asshole, but when the man just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, Ed had found himself feeling surprisingly guilty. It was the first time he’d noticed threads of silver running through Mustang’s dark hair, and the inexplicable guilt at the thought of being their cause made him even angrier.

On the other hand, Al is probably right – he tends to be. There’s nothing to be gained by picking a fight with Mustang, unprovoked.

Instead, he sits at the man’s table and watches him putters around his kitchen in silence. The house is dark, except for the kitchen and the hallway outside, but it doesn’t feel sinister or oppressive. Instead it just feels like they’re blanketed in a layer of peace, sheltered from the rain plinking a steady melody against the window panes. There’s a cheerful fire crackling in the hearth and it’s almost unbearably  _cosy_.

Ed doesn’t want to leave the hushed warmth of this place to go back to a cold, empty apartment. Al is in Resembool and won’t be back for another three days, and he’s more tired than he’s been since the beginning of the _year_. But it still hurts to be here, in some way. It hurts to be so close to something he wants, while knowing that it's not his to take. 

He’d been a little surprised by Mustang’s offer to take him home, but spending the night alone had been the last thing Ed had wanted to do. The offer of a couch had been sincerely appreciated, even if Ed had shortly thereafter demonstrated his famous inability to express gratitude. Mustang had probably expected that, and the last thing Ed wants is for the intuitive bastard to start picking up on his - well. His  _feelings_... 

Mustang starts chopping something, totally unaware of, or unaffected by Ed’s inner turmoil. Still, his Mother didn’t raise him to sit idly by while someone else was working, so Ed offers without thinking, “need a hand?”

He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth; it’s too good an opportunity for Mustang to let slide, and he just knows it’s going to spark his irritation and then the peace will be gone. But Mustang doesn’t say anything, even though his chopping pauses. “I don’t need one,” he replies lowly, “but if you don’t mind, could you chop up these carrots?”

Ed wordlessly slides off his barstool and takes two steps to the chopping board. It’s easy work, mindless and repetitive. Possibly the only kind of work Granny Pinako had ever trusted him with in her house, in spite of the involvement of a knife. It is also work that could be sped up through the judicious use of alchemy, but honestly, it doesn’t even make sense to do that.

People think he’s lazy, that he takes every possible alchemical shortcut out of every problem, because he’s not capable of anything else. It’s not true. It’s just that, well. Down one arm and a leg, he doesn’t always have the dexterousness for delicate work, especially in weather like this, when every inch of his body, mechanical or otherwise, is  _aching_. 

“Potatoes too?” he asks, when he’s done with the carrots, interrupting his own line of thought.

“Yes, please, but onions first if you don’t mind. I’ll get the stove going.”

Ed peels the onions with a practiced hand and then hesitates. Dicing or mincing onions was the _worst_. “D’you mind?”

Mustang looks up from where’s ducked under the sink, presumably looking for a pot. “Mind what?” he asks, clearly not paying attention.

Ed doesn’t roll his eyes. He’s being nice today. “If I freeze the onion. Prevents the gasses from escaping when we cut it, and, y’know, tear free.” It’s possible –  _maybe_  – that Ed has been awake for too long.

Mustang blinks and then nods. “Go ahead.” It’s so easy that Ed doesn’t even have to think about which array he’s using, but he’s about half way through venting all his frustrations on the frozen onion when he realises that Mustang is still staring at him.

“What?” he snarls, because he’s never done well under scrutiny. He prefers being ignored, or going unnoticed. Yet another failing.

Mustang shakes his head and there’s something like a smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. You’re just incredible, Edward.”

Ed takes a deep breath, all the better to yell with, resolutions of being nice pushed aside until he realises that Mustang isn’t making fun of him. He’s serious. Ed deflates, like a balloon with all the air let out. “Thanks, I guess.” It was a weird compliment, so it’s not his fault that his response was weird too.

Mustang huffs and it looks like that’ll be the end of it, but then –

“Do you like spicy food?”

Ed grins. “Love it. The spicier the better.” Ed likes it  _best_  when his dinner leaves him with smoking ears and tears running down his cheeks. Al calls him a masochist. He’ll learn the error of his ways when his tastebuds are back in action.

“The prep is almost the same, but from here we can go one of two ways. Do you want stew or do you want curry?” Mustang looks completely serious, and Ed stares at him.

“You’re feeding me?” Ed asks, realising instantly that he’s given away more than he’d intended to.

It’s Mustang’s turn to stare, and then he turns to look at the pot heating on the stove and the half-peeled potato in his hand, like he’s making sure they’re actually there. “Yes?” he replies, and it sounds like a question but Ed doesn’t think it is. “Who did you think I was cooking for?”

Ed shrugs, because, well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he doesn’t think he’s done anything worthy of being cooked for by _Roy Mustang_.

“Did you think I was going to sit here and eat alone while you sat at the table and watched me?” Mustang demands, sounding genuinely distraught at the notion. “Why would—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a deep breath. “Okay, this is a misunderstanding,” he whispers, more to himself than to Ed. When he looks back at Ed, his shoulders are deliberately relaxed, and his only tell is his white-knuckled grip on the handle of his knife. “Yes, I’m making dinner for us. Would you prefer curry or stew? I’m afraid that’s rather the limit of my culinary prowess.”

“Curry, please,” Ed replies quietly, because he does have some manners,  _really_.

Mustang nods and turns back to the potatoes. Ed slides the diced onions into the hot oil where they splatter and hiss and slowly begin to smell really good. “The seasoning is in the cupboard above you,” Mustang says, not turning to look at him even when he uses a spatula to stir the pot, keeping the browning onions from sticking to the bottom.

Ed has to climb the countertop to reach the cupboard, but Mustang doesn’t proffer a snarky opinion or a pithy joke. “It’s not about you, Mustang.” He doesn’t say acknowledge this, but nods when Ed fishes out a green container full of brown powder. He opens it up and leaves the tub on the counter, but the faint scent of spices makes him sneeze. “It’s about me, and – well. It’s not like I’ve ever deserved people being nice to me. It’s just easier to not expect it.”

“I’ve never wanted to hurt you, Edward,” Mustang says, using a clean tablespoon to heap curry powder into the frying onions. The entire kitchen begins to smell warm and golden, and saliva begins to flood Ed’s mouth. “Rice okay?” Mustang asks, and it takes Ed a second to jump from one train of thought to another. He nods.

“I know,” Ed answers his earlier statement, a long moment later, after Mustang has scooped two cups of rice into a pot of boiling water. “I’ve said a lot of stuff but I’ve almost always trusted you, after the beginning. I’d trust you with Al.”

Mustang nods, because he knows that, “but not with yourself.”

Ed shrugs. “Al’s more important than me.” It’s a simple truth; nothing that everybody doesn’t already know.

There’s a loud clatter as a metal lid hits the ground. “How could you say that?” Mustang asks, and he sounds genuinely shaken. “How could you—” he cuts himself off, because clearly Ed’s heard his question, and everyone knows Ed hates being asked the same question twice.

“Mustang, it’s simple. Two brothers, both alchemists, equally brilliant. It’s one brother’s fault that he has a body but the other doesn’t. The one with the body is caustic and bitter. He can’t go 24 hours without fucking something up. He destroys everything he touches. He’s rude and loud and unpolitical. The other one is kind and polite. He’s a healer, and there isn’t a single person in the world who doesn’t like him. This isn’t a self-esteem thing, I know what you’re thinking. I know people would miss me if I died and stuff. I know Al would be devastated. Winry, too. But if I died, he’d still have everyone else, and everyone else would still have him. It’s just common sense.” He shrugs. It is what it is. He's long come to terms with this. 

Colour is seeping from Mustang’s face like ink from a wet page. He looks like he’s going into shock, or like he’s bleeding out from some hidden wound. He staggers a little and leans heavily against the stone counter-top. The kitchen smells impossibly delicious and the rice is bubbling away on the stove. Ed dumps the chopped carrots and potatoes into the caramelised onions and covers the pot with a lid, waiting for Mustang to recover. He’ll see the sense in it, eventually.

“If there was no other way,” Mustang starts, and stops, and starts again. “If there was no way to retrieve your brother’s body, what would you give up in equivalent exchange?” It’s another one of those questions that isn’t really a question.

“You already know the answer to that, Mustang. You pretend to be an airhead but you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

It’s easy to say, because he means it. He’s never said it out loud because he knows how people would react; how they  _always_  react when Ed demonstrates how serious he is about this quest of his. Sometimes he thinks even Al doesn’t know, but how could that be? Al’s smarter even than him, but on the other hand, he suspects that if Al knew how far he was willing to go, he’d call the whole thing off immediately. Al’s always been overly burdened by sentiment.

There is nothing Ed wouldn’t do to save his brother.  _Nothing_.

“You can’t say that,” Mustang whispers, and now he’s shaking. “Edward, you can’t  _say_  that.”

Ed sighs and pulls up a chair for Mustang, to sit down before he falls down. “I can, because I mean it.”

“There’s so much to live for, Edward,” Mustang starts, but Ed doesn’t let him finish. He’s had this discussion before, with Izumi. She’d kicked him around a little bit, until he’d asked her what she wouldn’t do to save her unborn child; what she’d been willing to sacrifice. She’d understood, after that.

“I’m not suicidal, Mustang. I don’t  _want_  to die. But nothing in this world is worth anything, if my brother isn’t here. I’m the reason he’s stuck in a suit of armour. I’m the reason he hasn’t eaten or slept in years. My brother is the most – Al is the most important person in the world. If you had a chance to bring back Hughes, what wouldn’t you do?” Maybe it’s not a fair question, but Ed doesn’t know Mustang well enough to think of any other comparator.

Mustang opens his mouth and then closes it again. Ed pushes a glass of water into his hands, and it’s strange, it’s not even his kitchen but it feels achingly familiar, like he’s been here before, many times. He pours another cup of water into the pot of curry and the thick base expands to become a thinner gravy, bubbling and golden-brown. Ed’s so ready to eat, but the edge of a fork against a chunk of potato tells him it’s not done yet.

It’s strange, he thinks. This conversation should have involved a lot of screaming and thrown objects, but this is honestly the most civil discussion he’s ever had with Mustang in the six years since they first met. He’s come a terrifyingly long way from the crippled eleven-year-old that had glared up defiantly at Mustang from a wheelchair.

“I’m not your father,” Mustang finally says, an infinity later. Entire eons have passed while Ed waited for the man to pass judgment on his mental stability (or lack thereof).

“Thank god for that,” he can’t help but snort. Mustang has done more for him and his brother than Hohenheim ever did, and god knows, Ed would never have spent lazy afternoons with Fuery and Havoc, studying the fit of his  _father’s_  pants.

“I’m not your father,” Mustang repeats, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m your commanding officer but you’ve made it abundantly clear what you think of that. I can’t force you to obey me, Ed, and I don’t want to.”

Steam erupts from the rice pot, startling both of them before Ed leaps into action, yanking it off the stove and dumping it in the sink before it spills everywhere. Boiling hot rice sticks to his metal arm, but he doesn’t feel it. Most of the rice, they discover, is still salvageable, save for a layer at the very bottom that’s gone brown and crunchy. Mustang studies the ruined pot ruefully. “I never got the hang of rice,” he admits, and it’s possibly the funniest thing Ed has ever heard from him. He’s still giggling when Mustang portions out heaps of fluffy white grains into two plates, and drowns them with ladles full of curry. His stomach growls.

It’s not fancy, but it’s  _good_. Hearty and homely and hot. Both he and Mustang clear half their plates before Mustang looks up at him again. “It’s good,” Ed says, and Mustang grins, honestly pleased. He looks a decade younger for it, and almost stupidly attractive. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

Mustang’s smile dims a little but his face is still bright, and Ed doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man like this before. “I grew up with a lot of sisters. Most of them grew up to be working girls but one or two broke out of it. One of my sisters’ works as a chef in her fiancé’s café. She taught me some recipes.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but Ed will live and die first, by the principle of equivalent exchange. “My mother used to make this pie. An apple pie with red apples and a crispy sugar top, even though red apples were real expensive.” He doesn’t mind admitting to poverty because it’s not like Mustang didn’t already know, and something tells him that Mustang isn’t the type to judge.

“I don’t cook much. I get distracted by variations in the recipes and stuff.” Mustang snorts, and Ed doesn’t blame him. “But I bake pretty well. I’ve been trying to recreate that recipe, so that when Al gets his body back, I can make it for him. I’m close, I think.” It’s a huge opportunity for Mustang to manipulate him, but Mustang clearly knows better than to try. “I’ll pass you a copy of the recipe when I’m done. If I can’t do it myself, I’d like you to make it for him. Or get someone to make it, or whatever.”

 _I’m trusting you with my little brother_ , he doesn’t say, but it’s heard all the same.

Mustang swallows hard, and nods. “Edward,” he ventures eventually, when they’re done eating and the plates are soaking in the sink. “We’ve called a ceasefire tonight, right?”

Well, Ed hadn’t expected Mustang to call attention to it, but he nods. Call a spade, a spade and all that.

Mustang nods again. “Then I want to put my cards on the table. I’m not your father. I don’t need anything from you, except for a single promise. That no matter what I do, and whether or not you still respect me afterwards, you do your level best to stay alive.” It’s an easy promise to make, really. That’s something Ed had intended to do all along, anyway. “Because I care for you, and I’d miss you.”

 _That’s_ when Ed’s thoughts come screeching to a halt, but Mustang continues as if he hadn’t noticed, even though he almost certainly has. “I’d miss you more than I could ever express. I know it’s not always easy between us, but I trust you, and I hope you trust me too. And you’re important to me, personally and not just because of what you can do for me. You make me hopeful for the future, when I’m scared. I’d miss you a lot. I shouldn’t be saying this, but if I never have another chance to, then…”

There’s a siren going off inside Ed’s head and he thinks he might be having a stroke, because he’s sitting across a table from  _the_ Colonel Roy Mustang, who’s just admitted to what? Caring about him? And not in the way superiors care for their subordinates? No one has ever called Ed an emotional savant, but he – this _means_ something. Ed’s face must be  _glowing_.

Mustang doesn’t visibly deflate, but something about him seems to dim. His face looks exactly the same but he feels different. “No, don’t look like that,” Ed says, before his brain can filter through the words pouring out of his mouth. “This isn’t a no, I just need – I mean. Me too.”

Because of course, faced with a heart-felt declaration, Ed  _would_  only reply with a pathetic ‘ _me too_ ’ to sum up the jumble of emotions inside him.

Still, it seems to do the trick. Mustang stops deflating, and even smiles a little. “Of course, now isn’t the right time to talk about this. I’m your commanding officer and you’re still so young and we’re heading towards a war and you have so many things to do, but one day, Edward.”

Ed shivers, because only now has it occurred to him that Mustang is the only person in the world who calls him by his full name, and certainly the only one to ever address him in that particularly rumbly tone of voice. He nods, and agrees. One day.

“That’s not to say that you can’t change your mind,” Mustang starts, when they’re both done smiling at each other like idiots. Ed rolls his eyes but doesn’t interrupt, because this is clearly something Mustang wants, or needs to say. “If at any point you decide that you don’t feel that way, you’re not beholden to me to wait for all this chaos to end. I never want to shackle you to me if that’s something you don’t wholeheartedly want.”

“You done?” Ed asks, when it looks like Mustang has finally run out of air. His lungs must have incredible capacity, thanks to all the long words he uses. Ed isn’t a words person. When Mustang nods, Ed grins at him and reaches across the table for Mustang’s hand, and laces their fingers together. Mustang stares at their joined hands like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Right, well, I can tell you now that I’ve never once looked at anyone else the way I look at you. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it  _is_. If I change my mind, I promise I’ll let you know up front. The same applies to you, but something tells me that neither of us are going to be using this get-out card. There’s just one more thing,” Ed finishes, enjoying the way Mustang is stroking the back of his hands gently, listening to him talk.  

“Anything,” Mustang promises, which is stupid.

“Kiss me, just so that I have something to look forward to when this is all over.”

Mustang goes uncharacteristically red, and Ed thinks he’s already found something to anticipate, if simply being honest can make him blush like this. Thankfully, Mustang doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. Nor does he try to talk Ed out of it, or explain why this is a bad idea. Both of them already know it’s a bad idea.

Instead, Mustang gets up, and doesn’t let go of his hand, leading Ed into the living room. He sits down on the sofa but doesn’t turn on the lights, so the only illumination comes from the kitchen lights. Ed only stands between his parted knees, looking down at Mustang’s face for a split second before he gets the idea, and moves to sit on Mustang’s lap.

“Stop me anytime,” Mustang whispers, and kisses him.

It’s like a benediction, like something pure and holy. It’s still raining and now they’re away from the bright warmth of the kitchen it’s a little cool, save for the warmth of Mustang’s hands on the small of his back and his lips against Ed’s own. Ed lets his own eyes fall shut and eases into the kiss, following Mustang when he leans back against the sofa. The spread of Ed’s knees on either side of Mustang’s thighs gives him the perfect leverage to control his own movement, but he chooses to press his entire chest against Mustang’s, straining to feel his heart beat against his own. Mustang’s hair is thick and soft beneath his fingers and it almost feels like he’s petting a cat. When he rubs Mustang’s scalp with the tips of his fingers, Mustang sighs into the kiss but doesn’t pull away.

The kiss stays sweet and gentle until they both run out of air, Ed drawing back first. He doesn’t make any move to get off Mustang’s lap, and Mustang doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get up himself. They study each other for a long moment until Ed actually process what they’d been doing, and blushes. He still doesn’t want to get up though, so he pushes his face into the crook of Mustang’s neck, sliding his arms around Mustang’s ribs in a tight hug. All the better to hide his blush, of course.

Mustang doesn’t laugh, or tease him. He just hugs him back and strokes Ed’s hair with a soft hand. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Ed,” he says, and Ed isn’t sure he was even meant to hear it.

“The same goes for you, Roy,” he replies anyway, trying out the name. Mustang stiffens beneath him and Ed thinks for a panicked second that he’s made a mistake, until he pulls back and sees Mustang blushing so dark that it’s visible, even in the dimly lit room. Ed extracts his flesh hand from behind Mustang’s back and touches his cheek, just to see if it’s warm (it is), and Mustang looks almost _stupidly_ cute. “Can I call you that?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows the answer.

Mustang nods and draws Ed back into the hug. “Want to sleep here? I have a guest room,” he asks, mouthing the addendum directly into Ed’s ear before Ed can start over-analysing the invitation.

Ed shrugs. “I’d have been fine with the couch, Roy. I definitely don’t want to go out in this rain.”

“Nothing would make me happier than asking you to share my bed, but I think we both agree that this isn’t the time.” And it really isn’t.

This right now? This is an oasis in the middle of a desert. They’ve struck a truce, and they’re talking about this one thing in particular. There’s a hundred – no, a _thousand_ reasons why this is a terrible idea, and they’ve discussed exactly none of them. Ed likes to think he’s pretty smart, and he knows Mustang’s hardly an idiot himself, and both of them know better than to think this will happen easily, no matter how smooth it is between them now.

There’s a war to be won, and myriad battles to be fought before they get there. Ed still needs to retrieve Al’s body, even though he doesn’t know how. Ed is going to disobey Mustang’s commands if he has to, even if it gets them both in trouble. Mustang wants to be Fuhrer someday. He’s almost thirteen years older than Ed, and even the people who don’t object to the idea of two men being romantically involved will probably object to the age difference. And not to mention, the implications of abuse of power. 

In a little over four hours, they will have to face the world and pretend this never happened. This will have to be a secret from everyone they know, even the people whom they hold dear.

“When this is all done,” Ed says, moving backwards to get off Mustang’s lap, “I’ll kiss you back, I promise.”

A spark in Mustang’s eye tells Ed that he’s understood what Ed was trying to say. Mustang shows him to the spare bedroom and just before Ed’s about to close the door, he turns to face Ed with the same spark glimmering in the corner of his mouth. “We’re still at truce right?” Ed nods. “Then,” Mustang continues, darting in to press a kiss against Ed’s forehead, “you can just owe me two. It’ll only be equivalent.”

He’s gone before Ed can think of a response, but Ed still falls asleep with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know, this was _supposed_ to be funny and fluffy. I left it alone for ~~three~~ six weeks and it turned into **this**. I done fucked up, guys. I gave a perfectly good fic anxiety. 
> 
> Send love; things are shit in RL.


End file.
